


It's like Dying without the Glory.

by TobyRosetta



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Hurt, M/M, Panic Attack, Pining, Stiles POV, should I add more?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobyRosetta/pseuds/TobyRosetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles thoughts and point of view going through a panic attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's like Dying without the Glory.

Panic attacks are the worst.

Seriously.

The fucking bane of my existence.

Just when I think I'm okay, when everything is going smoothly, that's when it hits.

And it feels like I'm dying.

Of course I'm perfectly fine when I'm face to face with the school asshole sprouting scales and some seriously gross paralytic excretions… But when it comes to walking to my 3rd period math class? That's when they hit me.

At first, it's my muscles. I just kind of… ache, all over. Because I'm tense. My hands clench, and unclench. I bite onto my back molars to make my jaw pull in tight. My shoulders are locked up. I'm jittery. Paranoid.

Restless. Anyone looking at me when it starts to creep up on me would just think I'd popped too many Adderall, or that it was part of my ADHD. Next comes the paranoia. Anxiety. Shortness of breath. Elevated heart rate. I really hate the numb terms people use to describe symptoms.

It feels like I'm dying. That's the only way to explain it.

I can't breathe. It's like, there's a block in my throat. Like I've swallowed a handful of bark dust, and it's stuck in my esophagus. Trying to breathe around the imagined obstruction… It's more like a wheeze, accompanied by a lot of swallowing, and some seriously chapped lips.

If I'm in class when it happens, I just dart for the 'bathroom'. Or at least, that's my excuse. Sometimes I get lucky, and I'm in the middle of the hall when the heart pounding hits. That's when I start to feel sick.

They say that small rodents, like rabbits and such, often die of heart attacks before a predator, or even humans can actually catch them, and get their hands on them. When my heart starts to hammer away against my lungs, I seriously think I could be like a dumb rabbit. But I never die. Not even close.

By the time I'm too dizzy to keep going, I've usually made it to my hiding place. There's an alcove, above they gym. It's been used for years for storage. They put the tumbling matts and basketball equipment up there. And no one ever goes there. Except Scott, sometimes, if he gets worried about me, and wants to check and make sure I haven't actually died.

I always make it up to my Secret Place just in time. Just before I break. I flop down onto the cushioned pile of tumbling matts, and I come apart.

It's ugly.

No, I mean it. I cry like a bitch. I sob for air and wheeze, and I tremble. It's about the un-manliest sight one could witness. Sometimes it lasts just a couple minutes, sometimes it's hours that I'm like that. Stuck, looping through all the mental images, and flashbacks that terrify me. All the past times I've had attacks. All the things that are wrong with me, and my fucked up life.

Sometimes I don't see anything at all. I just tremble, and pace around, and move because moving means I won't think about all those things that are trying to kill me and my friends.

And sometimes... Very rarely… I think about what it would be like to be saved.

For a certain someone's arms to hold onto me, and fight all of those fears, and the crushing panic and anxiety, away. To stop the cold sweat, and the shivering muscles, and the crying.

When I was a kid, my mom was the only one who was able to completely stop a panic attack for me, right in its tracks. No matter what stage of panic I was in. All she had to do was say soft words, pull me in close, and sing. After she died…

Well… To be fair, my dad tried. He really did.

I love my dad. He's been my sole support since I could remember. But I can tell that he doesn't know what to do with me when I'm difficult. Either when I'm misbehaving, or when I'm hurt. It short circuits his brain, and he shuts down. Most men do, in those situations. He's done the best he can. I'm glad he doesn't try to copy the things mom did. It's not the same. And I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings when he'd learn that they won't work from him.

I don't really know if there's anyone who can do it… Who could relieve me from these attacks. I hope there is. Sometimes I close my eyes, and I imagine different people, and pretend they're the ones, and that they're with me, silent, waiting for me to be better.

But I always come out of it alone.

Exhausted.

Head aching.

Body sore from being tensed up.

But mostly alone.


End file.
